


A Break

by I_am_the_Muse



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:12:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5013088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_the_Muse/pseuds/I_am_the_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's probably too late for second thoughts, but you are starting to wonder if he even knows your name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is it Good?

It may have been a little late for second thoughts, but you suddenly wondered if he actually knew your name. Sure, you could be wondering how you ended up here – his jacket haphazardly thrown over the only camera in the room, the shitty metal chair shoved under the door handle to stop anyone else coming in, and finally _you_ of all people with your chest shoved onto the desk with your skirt somewhere up above your waist and your stockings and underwear shoved somewhere below your knees.

He hadn’t said much of anything after your ham-fisted attempt at flirting with him; he simply closed the door behind him, shoved the chair under the handle and told you to turn around. Obviously you did as you were told, and soon he was pushing you up against the desk and exposing your heated sex to his gaze.

You’d expected him to simply shove his cock into you, fuck you until he cummed roughly inside you and then leave is a quivering mess on the floor, completely unsatisfied. But no, instead his movements had been oddly gentle, and exceptionally pleasing. He’d run his fingers over your sex, spreading the moisture that had steadily begun to gather there, before slowly pushing them inwards, barely stretching you at all. He’d spread his fingers after, focusing more on preparing you for him and less on pleasuring you – not that you weren’t getting some pleasure from it.

Brock Rumlow was a god made flesh, from the steely look in his dark eyes to taut, muscular body he had that could be so very dangerous in a fight. The very thought that he was standing behind you, staring as you wantonly and vainly tried to fuck yourself on his fingers that were still trying to stretch you open was making your head spin.

It was a surprise, to say the least, when you felt his mouth on your cunt and felt his tongue lapping at your wetness before pushing inside of you. You, who had tried – and for the most part succeeded – to make as little noise as possible let out a choked gasp and bit your lip so hard you could taste blood on your tongue.

You’d feel guilty about not doing any of the work – though to be fair, standing up as you were was hard enough to begin with – but when you felt rather than heard him groan appreciatively against your cunt you can’t help but push yourself even more against his eager mouth.

You whine – actually you almost sob – when he moves away, but you are quick to shut up when you feel the head of his dick at your entrance briefly before his shoving it in you to the hilt and fucking you with vigour.

This was what you had expected when he forced you down onto the desk; this rough, merciless fucking that had you digging your nails into the wood of the desk and huffing out short soft moans and whines each time his hips slapped against your ass.

And now to your present wonder – did he even know your name? You only wonder this because you finally realised the own sounds he was making – which you assumed was incoherent grunts – were the words ‘sin’ and ‘Sinthea’. Certainly the name other than your own that passed through his lips brought down your high somewhat, but it helped that he had begun mouthing at your neck and shoulder as he fucked you, muffling the words on your skin.

He pulled you up against his chest and you heard an ominous ripping sound as he forced your legs further apart and began circling your clit with the calloused fingertips of his free hands. You came fairly quickly and bit down hard on the fingers he’d suddenly shoved in your mouth. You think you might have broken the skin, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead it seemed to set him off; he swore low, under his breath and his once harsh rhythm stuttered and finally stopped as he came inside of you.

He pulled out of you wetly, and your legs shook from the effort it took to stay standing. You let out a squeak when he placed his hand over you sex and whispered darkly in your ear, “Don’t let it slip out. I want you wet when I see you again.”

Ha. As if you’d need any extra help in that department at this point. You finally found your voice when you decided to tell him as much.

“Being wet is not going to be a problem, Agent Rumlow,” you told him, your voice raspy and low. He seemed surprised at that, but only for a moment before he was smirking again and removing the chair from the door before leaving you alone in your small office.

You weren’t completely sure, but you thought you heard him mutter, “See you around, Sinthea.”

Who was Sinthea?


	2. It Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You dream of him that night.

You dream of him at night. Your apartment is cold and small and lonely but that’s not where your dream takes place. Yours takes place somewhere cold and small and lonely and terrifying in its endlessness. There are no doors or windows or walls, just an all-encompassing darkness that leaves you gasping for breath and breathing daggers. You’re almost certain you’re going die, choke to death on nothing but air until you feel the faintest whisper slide over your neck leaving goose bumps in its wake. You could almost swear you hear him breathe your name against your skin, a name that isn’t yours, but then your eyes snap open and you’re out of bed and onto the floor, panting wildly for air that refuses to reach your lungs.

You hear the floors creak; there’s someone in your apartment.

You slowly reach a hand under your bed until your grip the hilt of the hunting knife you have under there. It fills you with a strange sense of security, which is something you refuse to dwell on much like many other things in your life. Your breathing is still dangerously loud and you don’t bother trying to get up at this point. You roll over onto your back, never letting go of that knife, and wait patiently as the footsteps come closer and closer to your bedroom door.

“What the hell are you doing down there?” Agent Rumlow questioned, an almost comical look of surprise on his face.

You say nothing in return, only sag even further onto the floor as the knife falls from your limp hands and clatters as it hits the ground. It had been almost a week since you’d seen the bastard that was standing before you. A week in which you simply assumed he’d forgotten all about your sudden and unexpected tryst, and threw yourself into what little work you had so that you could forget about the man that ended up being just like everyone else.

The surprise on his face turned into something much like genuine concern before flitting back to the little smirk you had also been dreaming about this past week. He walks towards you and you don’t have the strength to push him off as he pulls you up into his arms and places you back on the bed. It surprises you even more when he starts divesting himself of his SHIELD issued tacsuit until he’s in nothing but a pair of snug looking black boxer briefs and casually slides in next to you. You want to ask why, or maybe how, but mostly you kind of want to cause him some kind of bodily harm, but your arms or your tongue is not working quite how you want it to.

“What are you….” you’re not actually sure what you’re trying to ask him. What was he doing in your bed? What was he doing in your apartment? Why was he doing anything at all with you to begin with? All were valid questions, but you weren’t sure which one to ask, or if he would dismiss you or ignore you altogether.

“Have you ever considered growing your hair out?” Agent Rumlow asked, and began stroking the aforementioned hair. It wasn’t all that short if you were honest with yourself, but you guessed he liked woman with longer hair.

“No,” you mumble more than anything, still confused about all that had happen, still shivering from the dream you can barely remember happening.

Apparently finished with appraising your hair he started to trail soft, chaste kisses across your neck. They were almost comforting in a way, even if you were still incredibly confused, and you felt your stiff muscles start to loosen and relax. Other parts of your body began to warm up as well and you let out a shocked gasp when you felt his hand make its way underneath your panties.

“What are you doing?” you ask, gripping his wrist so that he can’t go any further.

“You can’t guess already?” he teased in response, and again tried to run fingers over your sex.

“Why?” you don’t dare let go of his hand. It’s not that you don’t want this – on the contrary, you’ve never wanted anything more. There’s something that feels indescribably right about this, about being in bed with him and sharing in his warmth.

“Do you really need to ask?” There was some emotion on his face, some kind of unreadable sign that you were supposed to know. Nothing. You had nothing on him. You had no idea why he was in your bed, and you had no idea why he fucked you in the first place, and you had no idea why he was looking at you the way he was. It was all very frustrating and confusing.

“Get out,” you mutter softly, and try pushing him away in vain.

“Sinth--,” he starts to say.

“My name is not Sinthea!” you snap at him, and give his chest another hard shover, hard enough to roll him over, but you’re not quick enough to stop him from grabbing onto you and pulling you over with him until you have to straddle his hips to stay upright.

“What game are you playing at?” he asks, and now there is a hint of steel in his voice as the grip he has on your arms becomes painful.

“What are _you_ playing at?” your reply tastes like acid on your tongue, “Who breaks into the house of a girl he fucked without knowing her fucking name? A one night stand or an office fling I could understand but fucking stalking me takes it to the next level. With all due respect, Agent Rumlow, you’re fucking _sick_.”

The stalker in question doesn’t take too kindly to that. This is evidenced by the fact that following your little rant he throws you off of him with enough force it has you tumbling to the floor and landing painfully on your shoulder. In an instant he is there behind you, rolling you onto your stomach and pushing your head into the floor so you can’t even look at him. You suddenly realise that saying no to Brock Rumlow was a big mistake. You expect the worst – who wouldn’t? – and with each passing second you feel your whole body tense up once again.

“It’s funny,” he says softly, gently, as if it were to a lover, “You look a lot like a girl I used to know. Must have been my mistake.”

He takes his hand from your hair, but you’re too scared to move. You flinch when you feel him plaster his whole body against your back, but just enough for you to feel him without crushing him. Inexplicably, you note that his cock is soft against your backside, and you feel like you’re about to get whiplash.

Brock Rumlow was an enigma – or he was to you, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your squees. I'd apologise for the lack of sexy times but I like to string you guys along. And the Brock Rumlow I'm writing is a mix of comic and MCU. I'm still working out the kinks - the plotline and character development, not the scar fetish (though that is equally important I'm sure) - and my muse (aka The Sarah) is helping me out because she wants to, not because I am holding her hostage.


	3. Is it Bad?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps this strange mix of emotions was something you would have to get used to when faced with Brock Rumlow.

Perhaps this strange mix of emotions was something you would have to get used to when faced with Brock Rumlow. Confusion was always the first to rear its head, followed shortly by the ever present that he evoked in anyone that swung his way. The frustration bloomed because of the confusion and the desire, and the melancholy struck when he slipped up and called you that name again.

For now, it was the desire and the frustration that was most prevalent, what with the way he had you positioned with shoulders pressed painfully against the floor, your legs dangling uselessly over your head as he pushed your thighs down and apart. He had your sex exposed to the heated air and to his equally heated gaze and he was _feasting_ on you.

There was really no other way to describe the way he was lapping and biting at your most sensitive places. He’d stop when the need to breathe was too great, and would dip his fingers into you instead, teasing and licking those fingers as if you were some exotic delicacy. You weren’t sure if he was even _trying_ to make you cum or if he was being sadistic – not that it mattered either way since the stimulation you were receiving had become painful some time ago. Your toes had gone numb some time _before_ that.

All in all, you wanted it to end and you never wanted it to stop, and you wanted him to fuck you until his cum started dripping out of your over-used cunt, and you wanted to ride his face until he begged you for release.

You were so distracted you almost didn’t notice that he’d stopped teasing you. You were brought back to awareness when he picked you up and placed you gently on the bed before rolling you onto your stomach. You could have wept with relief for the respite he was giving you, only to have the now familiar feeling of confusion stir in the forefront of your mind as he straddled your thighs and began massaging your back.

Brock had barely spoken to you all morning, and he’d been at this for almost an hour, maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting. It could be that he was apologising for his behaviour but didn’t actually want to say it. You wouldn’t put it past him – he seemed like the type who’d rather make some gesture than actually _say_ that he was sorry. You’d complain about his strange behaviour later, to yourself, after you were certain he wasn’t hiding somewhere.

You were breathing slowly and deeply, your thighs still twitching every now and then from the previous over-stimulation. It figured that he was just as good as easing out the kinks in your body as he was at putting them there in the first place. He had you pliant within minutes, and you were almost angry at how easy it was for him to do this to you.

“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice husky from misuse. You cleared it, but didn’t say anything else.

He chose to kiss the back of your neck and your shoulders instead of actually talking, and it made you even more frustrated. As much as the impromptu fuck sessions confused and aroused you, more than anything you just wished he would talk to you more so you didn’t feel like some convenient – well, like some convenient _something_. You didn’t even know what you were to him, apart from a lookalike of something from his past.

“Who’s Sinthea?” you asked, this time more hesitant. You froze when he stopped his ministrations, and was even more confused when he began stroking your hair. He stopped that after a moment and flopped over to the side of the bed before sighing. It was times like these you wished he was just a dick all of the time.

“She was out of this world,” he said after sometime, and when you turned your head to look at him he had this strangely peaceful smile on his face. “She was just… incredible. There wasn’t another woman like her on earth. And then she was just gone. But I’m gonna find her and bring her back. Don’t you worry about it.”

You didn’t think you’d still be able to blush but when he turned that peaceful, determined grin on you, you couldn’t stop the blood rushing to your cheeks or the fact that you had to turn your face away from him like a school-girl. You blushed even more at his responding chuckle, and let out an indignant squeak and he turned you over onto your back suddenly and began kissing and biting at your collarbones.

“B-Brock!” you squeaked out, and giggled when his fingers began running down your sides.

Of all the times you had been with him, he’d never been playful. Well, to be fair you hadn’t actually been with him all that much, and he was still infuriatingly confusing, but he’d never been playful when sex wasn’t the end-game. Then again, it could still be, but you got the feeling that he was thinking less of you and more of _Sinthea_ , and perhaps this is how he was with her. It’d be sweet if it wasn’t devastating to your own self-esteem.

“So beautiful,” he said, bringing you back to the present. He was mouthing at the skin of your breasts, and you could already feel your body heat up at the implications of those words and those actions. But no, you didn’t think you could take anything more – he spent so long taking you apart that you didn’t think you’d be cumming again for a week. Everything was far too sensitive.

“Just one more,” you heard him whisper, and gasped when you felt him rubbing his cock against your sex, “You’ve got one more in you, I know it.”

“N—oh!”

He groaned as you clenched down on him when he entered you. Just as you suspected it was all too much, but you were addicted to the way he was moaning against your skin. Inexplicably, you also knew that you would be cumming again if he wanted you to, despite what your body said.

He thrusts picked up speed sooner than you were expecting, and you couldn’t hold back a sob as he glanced across your g-spot. It was all too much and soon you were writhing against him, stuck somewhere between pushing him away and trying to get him to hit that spot over and over again.

You were sobbing, crying out variations of his name as you clawed at his back. You didn’t think you’d ever been this violent, not like you were with him. With every mark you left on him, it seemed to spur him on, made him snap his faster and with more ferocity. You were cumming, just as he said you would, and you bit down hard on his bottom lip just to spite him.

You couldn’t describe what you felt when you tasted his blood in your mouth, but if you were honest with yourself, it tasted like victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *intense grovelling intensifies*
> 
> hey there! Sorry this took so long. I'd blame life but I'm sure my laziness had something to do with it. I also apologise since I'm not 100% happy with this, but the next chapter will be better, because I will actually write down what is in my head about where this story is going and therefore not be stuck for weeks. Anyway! 
> 
> I also have a patreon thing now because making money for writing is really the end goal. But yeah, I'm going to be attempting to publish stuff that I write (mostly porn) on kindle and then putting links there and here probably so yeah. Check it out, I guess. Or don't. Up to you. I'm going to sleep.
> 
> patreon.com/iamthemuse


	4. Only if you stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were screaming but you didn’t know why.

_You were screaming but you didn’t know why._

_You were restrained to a metal table, the cuffs and old leather visibly digging into your skin. It was red and inflamed and you smelt blood in the air. With how things were going, it was probably yours. You couldn’t see your blood anywhere, not even where you were futilely pulling at the restraints – you hadn’t yet broken the skin. This lead you to believe that you might have bitten your tongue or cheek – it would explain why you had trouble speaking, though that could also be explained the restraint digging into your throat._

_You screamed again, only realising after you were out of breath that there were men in white coats surrounding you. They were surprisingly clean considering how much blood you were spitting out of your mouth, and they all held tools of their trades in their hands._

_Scalpels and needles and drills gleamed in the bright light of the room, and then they set to work on peeling away whoever it is that you were. You were screaming and thrashing and splattering the white coats with sticky red._

_Why didn’t it hurt?_

The obnoxiously loud banging from your neighbours woke you up.

“Are you fucking killing someone in there? Shut up!”

You didn’t know who it was – really it was a different person each week – and ignored him in favour of looking for water for your throat. You’d screamed it raw in your sleep. Again. And Brock Rumlow was nowhere to be seen. Again.

He wasn’t avoiding you or anything like that – well, not as far as you knew – he was away on another mission. Completely classified except for the fact that no one really noticed you when they gave you mission reports to be filed or destroyed. Add to the fact that you had photographic memory, you basically knew more about Rumlow’s mission than he did. Not that it mattered of course.

The nightmares had started a few days after he left and only got worse and more vivid each time you closed your eyes. You didn’t remember them at first, just felt the fear from them when you were done puking up yours get in the toilet. Now though, you could remember every single vivid detail, and couldn’t get rid of your goosebumps no matter how many layers you put on.

You never thought you’d be _glad_ that you had no friends whatsoever – you didn’t have to explain your tiredness, your mood swings. There was no one to notice they you were obviously pining over the asshole who just happened to be the only person in the world that gave a shit about you. No one else was around you to notice how incredibly lonely and afraid you were. It was driving you insane.

Your movements in getting dressed and ready for work were sluggish and slow. You were over-tired and miserable and knew that you could call in sick and no one would care either way. You remember your contract. You remember the word ‘expendable’ being used more than once. They could replace you fairly quickly and then there be someone new for everyone to ignore.

The alternative would be staying at home with nothing to do but remember your own nightmares and wallow in self-pity and loneliness. It was not exactly a nice alternative, but you really didn’t want to go to work and be reminded of your lack of worth. At least if Rumlow was here –

No – you already had enough problems without worrying about the what-ifs and maybes and the perpetual why that surrounded that asshole who only cared when it suited him. The worst of all being that if you were honest with yourself – which you avoided doing for a myriad of reasons – you’d admit that you didn’t hate him at all. You’d have to admit that you even enjoy the strange attention he paid you, even if it was just because no one else did. You’d even admit—

Your thoughts are interrupted by your obnoxious ringtone, and you suddenly realise that you were sitting on your couch and had been for the last two hours. You picked up your phone, expecting it to be work calling, and was surprised when you saw the caller ID of a man you hadn’t heard from in quite a while.

“Daddy?”

“Hey, sweetie,” came his warm, chuckling reply, “how’s my little girl doing?”

You contemplated telling him the truth – even if it was just a little bit – and weighted the pros and cons of how much a father should know about his daughter’s loveless yet sex-full love life, and then suddenly a sob escaped your lips without you meaning to.

“Sweetheart? Come on, angel, tell me what’s wrong,” your father implored, and then the dam broke.

You ended up telling him everything – well, almost everything. You left out the inappropriate office sex and Rumlow’s name and any other incriminating features. You were pretty sure that all your father heard was incoherent sobbing and clichéd self-loathing phrases. It was not your best moment, given your age, and the fact the last time you had this kind of moment with your father was when you were sixteen and you’d broken up with your first boyfriend.

“And I just – I miss him, and I just—it’s not,” you finished pathetically, wiping your nose on your sleeping and trying to stop your hiccupping breaths.

“Ah, sweetheart, you’ve been having a tough time. I knew I should have called earlier, I’m so sorry,” he tried to soothe you, but the concern and affection he showed just made you even more miserable.

“No, no, no, no – it’s not your fault – I’m just, you know, it’s just been a bad couple weeks. I’ll be okay, I promise,” and it wasn’t a complete lie. You felt better now that you’d bared your soul to someone, gotten all your worries off your chest – refreshed even. “I’m really feeling better, Daddy, really. Thank you for calling. You’re always there when I need you.”

“I try, sweetie – look, I gotta go, but we should meet up for brunch sometime, okay? It’s been way too long.”

He didn’t let you go until you’d booked a day and a time for the two of you to get together. You didn’t actually mind at all – you really felt like you needed to see him. It would be nice to see a friendly face, after all. Especially if you’d be stuck here by yourself until Brock –

Damnit.

You ended up not going into work at all that day, and instead went out to stock up on groceries and buy yourself some new clothes – retail therapy. You got home pretty late, and you were by yourself all day, and it was a little sad when you thought about it too hard, but when you got home you were feeling a lot better than you did that morning.

That was until you got to your bedroom only to stop short at the sight of one bloody, beaten Agent Rumlow passed out on your previously not-blood-stained bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A WILD PLOT APPEARS  
> kinda. Whatever. Here is a thing. Sex in the next chapter.  
> Maybe  
> aha


	5. I Won't Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He missed her more than he cared to admit to himself or anyone else, especially now that he’d found her again.

Sure, he missed her. He missed her more than he cared to admit to himself or anyone else, especially now that he’d found her again. He’d been having a feeling for a while now that they’re particular meeting wasn’t supposed to happen. It was the only way he could explain the bullshit mission he’d been placed on.

Well, it was legitimate enough; just a reconnaissance mission – no violence required unless shit _really_ hit the fan. So, really, a rookie or two with a supervisor could have done it. This was obviously some strange form of punishment that he hadn’t yet experienced – and he’d experienced a very varied amount of punishments in his life so far.

But back to the woman he was doing this for – it was her and it was anything _but_ her. It kinda sent him in tailspin for the first couple of seconds of he really unsubtle flirting. In all honesty, he _really_ thought she was just fucking him; playing a game with the hopes he’d play along.

So he did. Why wouldn’t he?

Of course things only went a little wrong from there. It was his conclusion – after a bit of after-hours recon – that she was who he thought she was, she just didn’t know it yet. So, _of course_ , it was up to him to make her remember. He’d hoped seeing him would have been enough to spark something, but it was obvious that whoever scrambled her brains and made her think she was some socially inept nobody did it pretty well.

But it’s not like Agent Rumlow didn’t have some experiences with victims of particularly effective brain-scrambling.

But where to start. None of his _usual_ behaviour was working. If anything, it was just making her hate him even more which was the complete _opposite_ of what he wanted at this point. Her weird, _nice_ girl next door personality was throwing him for a loop. She wasn’t like this before. She was cruel and ruthless and all kinds of nasty and she was just _perfect_ for him.

But now? Now she was…she was just so…different. He was starting to think that, well, maybe he didn’t mind different so much. It was a change of pace, sure, but different was kind of nice. Before, he was sure she felt something for him, but he couldn’t really tell if it was positive of negative feelings. He was always sure to watch his back in case she decided to stick a knife in it.

And now she was just so different. So much kinder. She’d look at him with those deep, sad eyes of hers and he’d start thinking maybe _he_ was the one with the scrambled brain. It wasn’t good for his mood since whenever he was away from her he’d want to be near her so he could experience more of this strange, different, sad woman he thought he’d loved at one point.

He snapped back toward his mission when he heard his name being called through the static of the secure line. Apparently it was time to head home, and not a moment too god damn soon.

***

Things were a little hazy after a particularly good hit to the back of his eyes, but it didn’t quite erase the bored look on his face that he was keeping firmly in place. But at least he was proven right about the punishment. And this was a little more of what he was used to.

He was in a well-lit little shit hole that he recognised pretty well – see aforementioned victim of brain-scrambling – and was being held on his knees with his hands behind his back by a couple of soldiers he didn’t recognise. They probably didn’t want his subordinates in the STRIKE team to start looking down on him, or something.

The sound of her voice, scratchy as it was, was still reverberating in his head. He’d been stupid not to think of looking into any connections – friends, family, anything – that she might have. It was clear that his head had been so far up his ass that he’d been blind to anything but her and how she revolved around him.

 _And I just, I miss him_.

She’d been crying and frustrated and he couldn’t help feeling both guilty and just a little bit smug. For all her protestations it was obvious she was thinking about him just as much as he was thinking about her.

But that was the point, wasn’t it?

In front of him, pristine suit completely devoid of all the dirty things he got his little minions to do, was the man that she believed was her father; Director of SHIELD, Alexander Pierce. Rumlow would beat that shit-bag to ground if he had half the chance. He didn’t care if they were in the organisation – he just didn’t like the guy. And now he was just a little creepier with this new information.

“I’ve been hearing some… _alarming_ things, Agent Rumlow,” the man intoned, speaking as if they were having scones and two fingers of milk.

“I’m sure you hear a lot of alarming things, Director Pierce,” Rumlow said back, slowly, careful to keep his voice calm, “I don’t know what you could have heard regarding me, though.”

The director frowned then and shook his head, and motioned towards one of the minions. For all his experience, it still took a moment for Rumlow to get his breath back after a swift kick to the guts.

“Don’t be cute, Agent Rumlow, I don’t have the time for it.”

Keeping the bored look was getting a little difficult now. Maybe he’d have to settle with pained and glaring.

“You know her past, Rumlow – you might be one of the few that do. And I plan to keep it that way.”

He stopped for moment, sighing – as if this was all so aggravating to him, as if there wasn’t a bloody, beaten mess of a man kneeling at his feet – and turned to smile down at Rumlow and shrugged.

“Unfortunately for me, you’ve already had quite the effect on her, and it would be inefficient for me to just rip you away from her. Add that to your own track record with us, it really would be a waste to kill you.”

The man nodded to the minions and they un-cuffed the agent before hauling him up to his feet. He stumbled, only for a minute, before his pride as a man kept him steady.

“So, Agent Rumlow, I’m going to be lenient with you and let this little _affair_ of yours run its course – and it _will_ run its course – and then you will never come near her again. If you disobey me I’m afraid there will be dire consequences for both you _and_ her, understand?”

Rumlow didn’t say anything, but nodded. The men lead him out of the bunker with instructions for him to head straight home, without delay.

Yeah, sure. He was definitely going to do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this has taken a while - whoops - but anyway. Hope you enjoyed this and hope its not awful since I don't have a beta but I am looking for a beta so if anyone wants to read my shit and tell me when I miss words that would be great ----
> 
> and yeah. That's about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Its a bit short, but I needed this to get back into the swing of writing porn. Also I have a lovely boyfriend now that I enjoy fucking, so I'll try to make everything as accurate as possible. Comment if you have any suggestions? Writing reader fanfic smut gives me life. I wanna hear your squees.


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